Fickle Fortune
by AmethystDragons
Summary: Ja'far corners Sinbad. He has to stay quiet, these days, but he's never been able to stop thinking. All luck runs out sometime. Drabble. Sinja.


He's waiting. When Sinbad steps through the door, it's the work of a moment to swing the door shut with a press of a heel, and when golden eyes turn to track his movement he advances upon his lord.

Two steps, onto his tiptoes, and lips are pressed together. Sinbad makes a thin sound that vibrates between them, something of surprise and not altogether unpleased. Ja'far notes this but ignores it in favor of pressing the man in front of him back, one step and another until Sin's shoulders hit the door and hands are around his waist.

It's been ages since last Ja'far felt this - the press of chests together and fingers slipping towards his hips, and for a brief moment his heart is fluttering in his chest like he's seventeen damn years old again and Sinbad's slipping back to the caravan fire, hand held up in triumph and tales of valor and magic and djinn upon his lips and all Ja'far can do is stare, stare, stare. Another might say it's unfair, but truthfully even at his weakest Ja'far's never quite felt that petty, never felt anything but admiration and a sense of breathlessness that of all lots in life he could've had, he had been the one to watch this one, this man, this king plow through the masses like a meteor streaking towards dawn. That's more than he deserved (now or then), a young assassin with too much blood and not enough self-preservation.

He wonders, sometimes, in how many other lifetimes his own story had ended at the hands of this man, instead of inexplicable mercy.

He wonders how many times that mercy was worth it.

Sinbad is humming, groaning under the assault of his lips. He's never a quiet person - or, at least, he wasn't in Ja'far's memory; Sin was a person of laughter and stories, command and the hidden restlessness of the open ocean that at any time could be whipped into fury. If Sin's an ocean then Ja'far was a rowboat, lulled and guided but always so close to being overwhelmed. In recent times that drive of motion has been quieted, replaced by distant eyes and guarded tongues, and Ja'far hates it. Hates the new titles, the new faces, the new tile under his feet. _Was this worth it?_ he thinks as the sash around his waist is loosened and fingers creep under his shirt.

In those hypothetical other lives, Ja'far wonders if he was happy. (He doubts it. Of all kinds of luck, his has never been faithful nor true.)

To feel this man now, springing alive under his hands, is a kind of power; Ja'far wonders to himself if he was ( _is_ ) just an outlet. This is a game they've played for decades, now; he wonders if Sinbad has always been loyal to that. Has his heart never fluttered when their eyes meet in morning meetings after shared nights? Has he never stayed up with restless reckless nerves, moaning names held secret only into his pillow?

… Has he ever thought that Ja'far might have had feelings too?

There's little use asking in less than thinking; words, Ja'far has found, are wasted sooner or later. They build false bridges and erect ill-founded towers; they obscure like the fog of the high mountains or are never, ever enough, and his words have rarely if ever have made the difference that they needed too. He has watched the fire in gold eyes die slightly every day for years, and if he only can stoke it in these hidden moments of primal contact he will gladly sacrifice any _feelings_ to a pyre in the far depths of his mind.

Ja'far was groomed to be a tool, after all. He digs fingers into fabric, nips a line across an exposed collarbone as hands more heat than skin move under his garments. No purpose in hiding who he was; he still thinks Sinbad is a fool, after all, even if he willingly became a pawn to see if that dream would come true.

The sun must finally be setting, he remembers as their positions are flipped, Sin's body covering his. The torches will be alight over the city. The fires will be burning tonight, he thinks; he wonders how long 'til his own burns out.


End file.
